


Smoke Gets in Your Eyes

by looneyngilo2



Category: due South
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-04
Updated: 2013-11-04
Packaged: 2017-12-31 12:48:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1031867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/looneyngilo2/pseuds/looneyngilo2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fraser talks about his childhood...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smoke Gets in Your Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Happening at the end of the “Likely Story” episode.

Ray and Fraser sat by the fire, after Fraser had finished his story. Ray felt there might have been an allegory in the story about princesses and monsters and inner bells, but he put it out of his mind. He had now been watching Fraser for a bit, who had grown quiet.

  
“Is he ok?,” he asked pointing at Dief.

  
“Oh, yes. He’s used to sleeping outside. As a puppy, he used to sleep by the ceramic water crock on the porch.”

“So is this how you were raised, tellin'... stories by the fire or?” he asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

“Uh, no, actually. I would think you could tell by my inferior storytelling abilities- “

“Yeah,” laughed Ray.

Fraser looked down and fiddled with some twigs.

“So, then, what would you do for fun? You know, in the snow? Like, you’d make a giant snowball or something?”

Fraser laughed. “No, we... My mother and I would go out to find chokecherries and blueberries. They were a closely guarded secret for families, so you always had to be careful not to be seen.”

  
“You’d all give each other the stink-eye?,” he smiled. “What do you take to get the berries?”

  
“An old plastic bucket and a threadbare sheet we no longer used, and which was stained with the juices. We’d set it at the bottom of the bushes, over the mud, and pry our fingers in, trying to grab what we could, making sure some were unripe, getting scratches, and staining our hands and faces. Once the bucket was full, we’d stop. She always reminded me to think of the animals who would need the berries for survival during the winter.”

  
“That’s nice,” Ray nearly whispered.

  
“We’d, uh, we’d go home and she would start boiling the canning jars and lids. She’d collected them over the years, given to her by friends, or bought when she could afford them. Some were small, some big, some skinny, some so wide they were like bowls. We'd mash, boil and strain the fruits. She’d boil the syrup and put the berries back in, then put them in the jars and if we were running low on water, instead of boiling them, she’d just set them upside down on our old and scratched table, in front of the windows. I can see her now, by our small stove that radiated so much heat. I - it's almost real.”

Ray nodded. He didn't have anything to say, except maybe "thank you for telling me," so he stayed quiet.

"It was the only way to have some fruit in the middle of winter, really. There was always the risk we wouldn’t have any deliveries for weeks.”

  
“Would you make pies?”

“Yes, she would. There would be flour on the floor, and the juices from the pie would sizzle as they dropped to the bottom of the oven. That’s if we had flour and sugar.”

“Didn’t your dad -”

“He was working. Um, but my mother really kept him in her mind. He would give her fireweed - it’s a purple flower that grows in the Northwest Territories - and she would hang them upside down from the ceiling, to let them dry. They would dry brown and tangled, their pods split, and she loved it. In the spring, she’d put them in jars. I - when she... when she died, I kept them, and I liked to look at the shadows they’d make...”

"You were a kid then?"

Fraser nodded.

“When she... passed, did he stop working or?”

“No,” said Fraser, somewhat finally, as if he were going to stop speaking now. “I don’t think he could stand to be there. I - even years after she died, I’d sweep and find strands of her hair stuck in between the floorboards. She was...”

  
Dief nuzzled his leg, and he stroked his head.

“She loved him so much. She’d walk hours to our neighbor’s house to be able to use her typewriter, and she’d type so carefully, trying again and again, having thought it all through before she even got there. And, still, she’d get home, and scribble out some words, fretting about how the paper had already creased. And the morning before sending them, she’d suddenly write hurriedly on it, covering the bottom half of the paper, writing nervously and joyfully, the envelope crumpled and sweaty by the time she arrived at the post office. Sometimes she wouldn’t send any, ashamed of her writing, I guess, and weeks later, she’d suddenly send 3 or 4 together or one after the other..."

After a few moments, Fraser turned to his side and said "No, I know you didn't know. That's not the point."

  
"Ah... What is the point?," asked RayK.

Fraser seemed to suddenly notice him, and said "She wouldn’t be happy that I haven’t canned anything in a long time.”

“Uh, my mother makes these, uh, fennel cookies. They... look like they’ll be normal, covered in fluffy sugar, you know? But then they broke in your mouth, and tingled or something. I loved them... I don’t know to make them. I’m not even sure what fennel is.”

Fraser smiled.

“That’s a lot of nature, Fraser. The closest I ever got to nature was stealing the water my mother boiled for her morning tea and using it to melt the ice from the birdbaths in the winter.”

  
Fraser looked at him, surprised.

“She’d get pissed off,” laughed Ray. “Oh, and, uh, our birdfeeder was falling off its post all the time, because I was the one who had to put it up.”

"I'm sure the birds appreciated it anyway," said Fraser, and they both smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> This story was long in the making. I’d say it’s been hanging about for a year or so, waiting for me to create it. In the end, I owe the story to the inspirations that pushed me to finally write it. I’m very grateful to the Cincinnati Locavore site for the recipe, Iron and Wine’s “The Trapeze Swinger” for the magical childlike feel I hope I was able to capture, and both the books “Love Letters Lost” and “Book of Kittens and Cats” for photographs that sparked new scenes.


End file.
